


Let me drink from your hands

by RoughMoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoughMoon/pseuds/RoughMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves Derek's hands, but is quite terrified of the rest of his person... Until he isn't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just some rambling about friendship and love. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!!

Stiles is in love with Derek's hands.

He's not so sure about his other feelings for Derek-the-person, Derek-the-werewolf, though… He knows his mind and body are traitors who ally to do strange things whenever he sees Derek, no matter how cool and witty he tries to act in his presence. But this is just a normal biological response, isn’t it? After all, he really doesn’t understand how his pack can even walk around him without having their heads spinning around and fuming with lust…

Anyway, he’s ok with it as it is and likes to keep the dizzying sensation deeply buried inside of him, locked, secure and private. So profound nobody else can see it or even smell it. He hopes at least…

So, no, he’s not planning on doing anything about it. No sir, nothing at all.

Besides, _what_ could he do?

But about Derek’s hands.., there are no possible doubts. This is LOVE. Pure and sincere and beautiful. Because they are big and strong and warm and careful and delicate all at the same time, and the few times he has been grabbed with them, even when it was to throw Stiles against the nearest wall, he has felt safe and valued, grounded, confident about his place on earth.

He would happily live wrapped by those hands, as a sweet and warm candy, ready to be stripped and… erh… wait, no, don’t follow that path, no, no, no…

Oh, shit… He’s just a bag of contradictions and crazy hormones and stupid misunderstandings and overreactions stuffed in a too-long-limbed body with a few still-to-be-fully-developed brain cells. A teenager, in a single word.

Anyway, if he is sure about something is that these are the perfect hands for him. The only problem about his little obsession is that its object is still attached to Derek-the-person, Derek-the-man.

He would like to have free access to these hands, to take them while he walks, hold them and squeeze them at ease, to highjack one of them and hold it for hours while he watches a film at home during one of the many times his dad is working the late shift and he’s alone in the house. He’d want one of those hands on his waist comforting him all night long, silently telling him that everything is going to be all right, that it’s got him, and he would place the other one on top of his shoulder, distractedly playing with his hair while he does homework or research during the long lazy winter afternoons.

Of course, he would put those hands in other places as well, would find good and fun uses for them, no wonder about it! He’d love to have these hands helping him having a shower, soaping his whole body, massaging his tired limbs after a good long run through the woods…

Oh, well, he just wishes he would know enough magic to summon those hands whenever he needs them. Because, and he knows this is a pretty big issue, there’s absolutely no way he can make any progress about this while the rest of Derek is also there. Because, crush or no crush, that one…, that one still terrifies Stiles. A lot.

He knows this is not as what he had with Lydia, which now seems to him quite childish, by the way. Because Lydia was attractive in an unattainable way, a goddess from heaven, perfect to place on top of a cloud with a white cloth while he was waiting for one of her benevolent or malicious smiles, depending on the humor of the day, while she was looking far, far away from him. And that was enough, was perfect, nothing else was really necessary to keep him happily hooked and dancing around her.

But Derek… he knows Derek is not for him either, but for totally different reasons. Because in spite of him being a supernatural creature, he feels real, someone down from earth, someone who sweats and pees and bites and eats what he’s bitten. Just like…

Just like a dirty fantasy, maybe…?

So, yes, let’s admit it, Stiles has a _very_ active imagination, “overactive” was the word his teachers used when they spoke to his father. He has a great inside world, and with a feverish imagination comes amazing wet dreams, naturally. And he enjoys that, just loves to be awake at night for hours, enjoying his own company under the secrecy of his sheets and covers, creating situations and plots where he is seductive and irresistible and strong and calm and intelligent, and of course he always wins the girl or the boy he wants. And sometimes Derek is there as well starring many of his dreams and imagined adventures, with very active hands, doing things with him, to him; things he is quite ashamed and wouldn’t explain to absolutely anybody, not even to Scott after hours of playing halo and eating cheetos, when they feel they will trust each other with the most stupid confidences. Only not these ones…

Because everybody knows it; some images are meant to remain inside of one’s head and are better never ever leaving it. They fulfill their purpose there but nothing else, and that’s the way it should be. They never pretend to get real, they are never to be tried. Like when he imagines how it would feel to be tied by his wrists, exposed and blindfolded, teased for a long, long time, touched from feet to head, his neck licked and nibbled, his skin lightly brushed in an unbearable way, tickling and giving him goose bumps all over the body without being able to do anything about it, never allowed to touch himself, release denied until it becomes an unbearable mix of pain and pleasure... How his legs would twitch, how his hips would thrust into air trying to anchor into someone warm and welcoming. Or when he thinks how it would be like having sex with a wolfed-out partner… To feel fur all over his sensitive skin, claws on his shoulders and fangs against his lips, while his whole body is trembling against a strong wall of muscle and nerves leaving no space between them, no possible escape... To lick those white dangerous fangs with his tender pink tongue, glowing eyes full of want reading him as an open porn magazine…

Oh yes, all of this is great stuff to jerk off, but he wouldn’t try it in the outside-of-his-own-mind world, right? And Derek is also part of this realm of fantasy, never meant to leave it. Great fiction but nothing else, right? Right?

On top of that, Stiles doesn’t even know if he likes guys at all in the real world, since he's never been with one.

Well, for the same reason, he can’t be sure if he likes girls either...

Experience, that’s the point. Or the lack of it, more exactly.

~

They have been running though the woods for a while, scattered, trying to lose the witch without revealing their real direction to her. And of course they all do it like this is a fucking movie, just without the makeup and the cameras. Only the thinnest layer of sweat is covering their forefronts and they’re not even panting, their movements are fast and precise, elegant and silent. Except for Stiles, obviously, who is transpiring profusely, his t-shirt wet and darkened all over, his face read, eyes wide with panic, breathing difficulty, tripping over the roots and fallen branches, noisy and ridiculous…

Let’s face reality. Being the human in a pack of werewolves _sucks_.

Oh yeah, he values his freedom above everything else, not being tied to his mood changes or the moon or whatever might click the shift, not fearing the hate from the hunters or the dread from the humans, not feeling alien to himself. Still…, sometimes he is painfully reminded about the perks of being a werewolf. And when that happens, he hates it, he just hates it…

So, when they get to the partially renovated Hale house and everybody is gracefully moving to do whatever they have to do, some of them already leaving, others getting some water to drink or clean a tiny parch of mud from their clothes, he is the only one who has to seat on a log outside trying to breath normally again, unable to move for a while.

Scott offers to stay with him, but, not able to talk yet, Stiles dismisses him with a wave, indicating his Jeep and meaning he’ll go home as soon as he can drive again, since he knows Scott is going to see Allison this evening before it gets too late. Scott understands this without saying anything and just nods, because they are brothers at heart and they don’t need words to communicate.

So now Derek’s the only one around and the only one who seems to have noticed that he’s struggling, physically and mentally. About his whole value there, about why they accept him, why he insists on going with them when he knows he’s a burden, nothing but a risk for everyone. Derek then seats with him, silent, close enough to send heat waves in his direction, and Stiles can’t help but subtly leaning towards it until his shoulder is softly touching Derek’s arm.

‘Derek, can I ask you something?’

A soft smile illuminates the dark look of Derek’s eyes. ‘Well, you will ask anyway.., so, go ahead. You know I’m not always answering, though…’

Stiles inhales and says, ‘Am I pack?’, immediately regretting the question. Because this is stupid, he knows it, and even worst, it’s old silliness. But Derek only huffs, apparently amused.

‘Again with this question? I can’t believe it; I thought we were beyond that, Stiles…’ He’s shaking his head, refusing to give the answer Stiles needs to hear, needs to feel.

He then turns his head to look at him in the eye. Because Derek knows Stiles can’t hear his heartbeat to tell he’s not lying, so he tries to convey his sincerity with his eyes.

‘Of course you’re pack.‘ And he’s laughing again. ‘Now ask, am I stupid? Yes, you are!’

But Stiles is not giving up, and he insists. ‘Why? Because I’m Scott’s best friend?’ His voice reveals he’s really worried about this, that he is taking some kind of decision based on the response he gets, so Derek is serious when he responds back.

‘No, you’re pack because you worry about us, you always try to help and protect us, and because we are the same with you, we care about you. _I_ care about you. Do you really need me to elaborate here?‘

After a brief pause…‘And of course you’re stupid because of your own skills, not Scott’s’

The fact that Stiles is not even registering the teasing is preoccupying Derek to some extent, realizing the conversation is not over yet, sensing that what’s to come might be even more difficult. Stiles seems to be mustering the courage to go ahead, so he just lets the minutes slowly pass until he speaks again.

‘Ok, then, if I’m pack, can I have something?’ Stiles is feeling frail, more and more as the seconds keep piling one on top of the other until they’re about to crumble down, messing with the time-space continuum. But he can’t say what he wants now, there’s absolutely no way he can form the words to respond to Derek’s inquisitive gaze, so he just moves closer to him instead, placing his hands around his waist.

‘Can I have this? Just once?’

Derek’s is startled, but tries to conceal it, relaxing against the limp body he is slowly holding, feeling his muscles losing a tension he wasn't aware of, and his lungs expanding. He speaks softly, his words a warm breeze against Stiles’ neck. ‘Yes Stiles, of course you can have this. This is simple, it’s just a hug. We all need hugs sometimes.’

Derek’s hands are easy on him, pressing with the exact necessary force, warming his body from the inside out, calming him. He thinks he knows now how a phone might feel while it’s charging…

And it might be him losing track of time, but… isn’t Derek holding him for longer than it was expected for a simple comforting pack hug? Is his breath also troubled, really?

Oh, man! Just a hug, he said.

He is…  
condemned.

~

This is a thing now.

They are a thing.

He can have Derek’s hands as often as he wants, and the rest of the world can go to hell if they don’t like it. And.., Derek-the-person is not that bad either, after all. Surprisingly, it didn’t spoil the immense pleasure of having his hands. He’s not that terrified of him anymore, only scared to the bone, sometimes…

Still, his hands…

He is weighted and measured with Derek’s hands, now. His whole world is defined by them.

But not everything is about hands anymore. His world is expanding. There are kisses, for example…

Can you describe the taste of a kiss? He’s discovered now that he loves how the taste of a kiss changes and evolves; how it starts like the first coffee, if it’s a morning kiss, or mint if Derek has recently brushed his teeth, or like the oranges he eats all the time. He likes discovering the different flavors, letting his brain guess what’s been inside Derek’s mouth before him, but he is an addict to the final taste, the one that is pure Derek, that appears only after they’ve been kissing for a while, stripped from all other savors once the remaining of drinks or food have been swiped away. It’s a slightly metallic taste, clear and fresh like river water, brilliant as morning sun through green leaves, stronger under the tongue, and once it’s there it floods Stiles’ brain, absorbing any other thoughts.

Its memory makes his mouth water with anticipation.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Running again. This time is a rogue who has caused enough trouble to be put down, and Stiles shouldn’t be there when they finally get to him. Only that he is. Alone. Not his fault, though.

He was waiting as they agreed, with his phone and his heart in his hands, waiting to hear a call or footsteps or familiar voices… Only not the rogue, not his wild eyes and a wicked smile parting his face, smug because he defeated the other wolves to run after the human smell in the middle of the forest.

Smiles is fast, but the rogue is feral and desperate, so he gets to him before he can shut the door of his Jeep. He takes him by his wrist and is quickly beating him. Ribs, stomach and head are the worst, and when he crashes against a tree it’s almost a blessing, because he knows what the rogue is doing. He’s not trying to kill him, he’s only using the weak human to create a distraction so that the others will stop and check his injuries, making sure he is safe before they continue the hunt.

Time, Stiles only means time to escape. So when there are enough blood and bruises covering his body and the smell of pain and fear prevails over the other scents in the clearing, the rogue flies away without looking back one single time.

He tries to maintain a seated position against the tree until the others arrive, but the pain and nausea are overwhelming, and when he hears Scott hissing through his teeth he just loses any pretense of dignity and falls, whining softly.

He first senses movement, then a warm pressure from the body that is carrying him, careful and quick. He hears them talking, hushed, fast words. He can’t get the meaning, but the tone is worried and angry and… guilty.

And he doesn’t want them to regret having him there, to pity him. He’s about to black out, but has to tell them first. He has to speak now before it’s too late. But he can’t talk.

He has to tell them

That it doesn’t matter

That Scott often doesn’t return his calls

That Derek didn’t trust him for a long time

That Erica was aggressive to him

That Allison hated them

That Isaac takes so much of Scott’s time and affection

That Boyd will never get close enough to them

Or even if Derek gets tired of him eventually

It really doesn’t matter.

Because they are friends.

He is new to concepts like pack or mate or even boyfriend, he still feels strange and insecure about them. But he knows friendship, this is his terrain, he’s good at it, and he knows they will always be friends, no matter what. And this is what friends do.

They truly forgive, without regrets or resentment.

A friend can hurt a friend sometimes, but they never let each other down.

He’s trying to speak, has to sooth the urgent need to tell them this now, before he loses the courage to do it or he forgets or it just doesn’t make sense anymore inside of his head. But his throat is dry and his tongue feels like a dead animal inside his mouth, so his efforts are all to no avail. He’s only making incoherent sounds.

Then the pace slows and it seems they’re stopping. He feels being lowered and he is now leaning against someone else’s chest, strong hands taking his head, manhandling him until he is resting in a comfortable position and he can breathe better, although his eyes remain closed as if they’ve never been really open. That body is Scott, isn’t it? So, where’s Derek?

He then hears the clear sound of water singing close to where they are, hears the careful footsteps approaching, and his head instinctively moves in that direction, towards the warm hands that feels so close to his face, to his lips.

‘Here, Stiles…’

‘Drink’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> I feel very unsure about my writing and my English, so any corrections, suggestions or comments are EXTREMELY praised!!!!!!!!!!


End file.
